I had a plan full of intelligence and geometry and tropical passions to build a city around Desire, laser rays of Desire, misty light of Desire. The wind is capable of breathing better, much better than most hearts. We blindly obey the wind, as if we were just this moment, wholly this single moment of architecture of human flesh in the air, while lips touching, flames touching, pursuing the Ultimacy of imagining truth, right here right now, half mad half wise, half blank half written...
This poem awaits for nudity to inhabit the Springs of nocturnal waters and ultimate goods.
Physically
anatomically
absurdly
grammatically
it's midnight within my rainbows and yours, or my breasts and yours, sharing the same flesh, hand in hand, twelve o'clock, midnight full of rainbows, as if we were like gods, or children of gods, beyond divinity, nameless powers of Sacred Silences.
The wind is founding new temples, carving new memories, boiling new anxieties of wandering and meeting the cross where multiple is new One.
We are this nocturnal atmosphere, perspiring fresh fruits, rainbow and vapor and human flesh
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